


I know the kindest thing is to (never) leave you alone

by dragon_rider



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Episode Fix-It: s01e06 Rare Species, Eventual Smut, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Says "Hmm", Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:35:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26255752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_rider/pseuds/dragon_rider
Summary: By the Gods he would understand the nuances of the White Wolf's frankly limited speech, he could and would make it part of his life's mission, alongside fixing his abysmal reputation.Geralt deserved much more than to be treated like a butcher. Jaskier had seen his kindness first hand just hours after meeting him and he was baffled that someone so noble could be so sorely misunderstood.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 447
Collections: The Witcher Alternate Universes





	I know the kindest thing is to (never) leave you alone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elder-flower (elder_flower)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elder_flower/gifts).



> Based on this [post by darkverrmin](https://darkverrmin.tumblr.com/post/626736168712683520/geralt-and-jaskier-stumble-upon-an-ancient) on Tumblr, prompted by [GenkiTaco](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Genkitaco/pseuds/Genkitaco). 
> 
> I'm sorry I made it sad? Oops. Also, once upon a time I was a musician, but the keys? I have no instrument to test them, so I vaguely remember how they sound and eh, I went with it.
> 
> As always I love my beta [elder-flower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elder_flower/pseuds/elder-flower), go read her stories! She's awesome. I did use TAD lyrics for the title and a bit of the story as well, also as usual.

Jaskier had made it part of his craft to be able to read people, usually with just a look.

After meeting Geralt, he quickly realized he'd need to adapt his methods since the Witcher's features barely twitched and his body language could be summarized as 'always ready to pounce'.

The Witcher was truly a mighty predator that was sadly used to being pelted with rocks for being who he was and could not have the luxury of relaxing, not even in the company of one pesky but harmless human.

It took him about three days to notice the little differences in intonation his companion's _Hmms_ had, mostly because until then they had all been the same _‘I'm annoyed and will hit you again if you push it’_ A sharp.

But on day three, the bard managed to surprise the Witcher by setting the fire for their camp himself. He was a quick study and had been starving for his companion's approval.

He got a different _Hmm_ in return, a new one in G sharp. He didn't even feel disappointed as Geralt sat across from him on the other side of the fire.

He was too excited for that. This was something he could work with! And by the Gods he would understand the nuances of the White Wolf's frankly limited speech, he could and would make it part of his life's mission, alongside fixing his abysmal reputation.

Geralt deserved much more than to be treated like a butcher. Jaskier had seen his kindness first hand just hours after meeting him and he was baffled that someone so noble could be so sorely misunderstood.

He vowed to himself: he would make his companion the most famous, loved Witcher on the Continent. Perhaps he was too young and that was why he was brave enough to have such big dreams, but he did also have the talent required for such a task.

Understanding his companion would help his composing and possibly earn him the right to one day call him his friend.

***

He did not keep notes of Geralt's repertoire of _Hmms._ He would not betray the Witcher's trust like that, for it was one thing for a travelling bard to get to know him better but quite another to allow someone else, possibly with ill intentions, that privilege were his notes to be stolen, which had happened back in university, where artists were infamous for being competitive and traitorous if they had to be to reach the top.

***

They were three months into their acquaintance when the poet finally put his new set of skills to use.

Geralt had been hired to kill a Kikimora. He'd forbidden Jaskier from following him but he'd done it anyway, at what he deemed a safe distance.

There had been three monsters, not one. True, one was bigger than the others--the mother and her offspring, possibly? The Witcher had yet to reply to the bard's many questions about his trade so he could not be sure.

His companion had come back covered in monster blood and guts to receive his payment.

"How did it go?" Jaskier asked innocently when they got out of the alderman's house.

"Hmm," was of course the answer he got.

It made him frown. It was Geralt's resigned _Hmm_. C sharp.

Something was not right. He almost slapped himself in the face when he realized how obvious the problem was. 

There had been three monsters, yet the Witcher had only gotten payment for dealing with one.

"A warm bath is waiting for you in our room," Jaskier announced with a proud smile. The timing was so very important and he'd gotten it right. "I'm sure you can make it even hotter with your fancy hand trick."

"Hmm." Tired. C minor. Geralt was so very lucky Jaskier's ears were so sensitive.

He retraced their steps to talk with that cheap, nasty alderman, knocking just once at his door before going in.

"What the fuck are you doing?" the old man asked as Jaskier approached with a winning smile.

"You are going to pay the Witcher what he is due," he announced, matter-of-factly. "There were three monsters, not one." He paused and glared at the fat sleazy excuse for a man. "Oh, but you knew this already. So why, may I ask, are you not paying what you ought to be?"

The man stood straighter as if to cow the poet with his frankly poor stature. Jaskier withdrew a small but sharp dagger he carried in his sleeve and casually poked the alderman's bollocks with it, still grinning.

"If you scream for any kind of help, I will yell louder while I geld you," he threatened. "The Witcher will come for me and who is he going to believe, I wonder? The dishonest man who employed him for a bigger job than he said it was or his loyal travel companion?"

"You filthy little whore." 

Jaskier nodded indulgently as he received the heavy coin purse the man threw at him, for he was not little or a sex worker, not that there was anything wrong with that. Being a town's alderman was far dirtier work, he had no doubt about that.

"A pleasure doing business with you." He sneered at the fat man and made sure to look down at him as he got into his personal space for one last time. "Being a whore is a very important, very respectful and noble occupation, I'll have you know. They're doing Melitele's work far better than men like you!" He pushed the man just to see the fear on his sweaty, ugly face and left.

He was lucky enough to get back to the inn just in time to help Geralt wash his hair, which he did happily after rolling up his sleeves, his trusty dagger put away in his right boot.

He grabbed the lone stool in the room and placed it behind his companion's head, the hot water splashing him a little when he doused the Witcher with a bucket over the head.

"Hmm." Relieved. E major. A rare jewel for Jaskier's ears. His dearest friend, because in the poet's eyes he was already a dear friend, was truly exhausted. He didn't even want to deal with the mess of his hair himself.

"Ugh, I admire you, Geralt," he admitted honestly, scrunching his nose at the feel and smell of the monster remains, deft fingers spreading lather and the tiniest bit of lavender oil over the Witcher's scalp. "I don't know how you deal with all this with your heightened senses. It must be horrendous."

"You get used to it." Words! A whole sentence! Jaskier would've done a little happy dance if he could. As it was, he kept kneading Geralt's head and combing his white locks with his fingers, slowly so as not to tug.

It was a pleasure he'd only ever had two times before and on those two occasions the Witcher had been injured and mainly out of commission. This time he was just tired but he still allowed Jaskier close, accepting his help.

"You're not injured, are you, my friend?" he asked, because Geralt could be truly dense about it.

"Already healed." Two words, but still said only for his sake, which he appreciated.

He smiled and carried on diligently, humming a gentle tune under his breath. He could not keep a hundred percent silent but he could spare Geralt his incessant chatter for a little while as he relaxed in his bath.

Once the Witcher was clean and sleeping on the lousy mattress, the bard sneaked the coin into one of his companion's bags.

They were still getting to know each other, but he knew Geralt would not accept it otherwise.

***

He had no notes, but he kept everything he learned about the Witcher close to his heart so his mind could not and would not forget a single detail.

With time, Geralt even started to tease him instead of just angrily demanding to be left alone or to have some blessed silence.

After twenty two years of travelling with him on and off--always more on than off, if he had any say in the matter and managed to track his friend to some town suffering from some beast or another--Jaskier was confident and comfortable in his place in Geralt's life.

True, since Rinde and Yennefer things had not been the same. His heart ached foolishly each time the Witcher ditched him to be with the enchantress, but if there was anyone on the whole Continent who could understand love it was Jaskier and he wished his friend nothing but happiness.

If his silly, greedy little heart wanted to be the giver of said happiness and be loved like the witch was, yearned for Geralt to look at him the way he looked at the sorceress, well--Jaskier was only human, and jealousy was a flaw of his, one of many, he knew. But by the Gods, he had a bad feeling about Yennefer and didn't want her anywhere near his best friend.

Sadly, what he wanted did not matter.

Still, it was his big mouth and stupidity that landed him the worst blow he ever received.

Over two decades of study and he still miscalculated, thought that Geralt would go along with a bit of silly joking.

“Phew! What a day--”

"Why is it that every time I find myself in a pile of shit, it's you shoveling it?" the Witcher all but spat at him, both his tone and his gorgeous features letting the poet know his rage was true, his words honest.

"That's not fair," he managed to stutter.

He had never truly felt the pain many love songs told of; nevertheless he could not come up with anything better than a knife impaling his chest to describe how he felt at that moment.

"The djinn, the Child Surprise, all of it! If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!"

Again, Jaskier saw and heard that Geralt was speaking the truth. The camaraderie and trust they had shared shattered. He realized maybe he'd been fooling himself all along.

He didn't know when he'd fallen in love with the Witcher, he only knew why and how unavoidable it had been.

He was so kind in his own rough, quiet way. He would help people who had no coin or even give them what little he had. Fuck, he'd given the bard his very last coin the first time they met.

He thought of himself as a monster, but Jaskier saw a hero, a legend, and had been singing and sharing his praises with the people of the Continent for many years. No one dared call the White Wolf by his old, terrible moniker of The Butcher of Blaviken anymore.

It had been his life's work, fueled by love and admiration, and he’d ruined it, with barely a misplaced sentence.

Did it really mean that little? What he’d done for his friend, all their adventures and time together? They meant the world to Jaskier, and yet the Witcher was brushing him off like a horse did a fly.

"Right--right then," he stammered, stumbling back, still blindsided by the horrible ache that was taking hold of him. "I'll go get the rest of the story from the others. See you around, Geralt."

He did not know if heartache had a smell, if his _former_ friend could pick it up from him as he walked away. He did what he could, which was swallow the sobs that were battling to be let out of his throat, and grabbed his lute, his songbook and nothing else.

Everything else could be replaced. 

Everything else was something he'd shared with or bought alongside Geralt and he could not stand the sight of any of it. His beautiful girl, his cherished lute, he'd also got because of the Witcher, but they would pry her out of his cold, dead hands.

It didn't matter that it hurt to hold her now, that it would always hurt.

***

He walked mostly alone to Temeria. He could barely stand the sound of his own voice, let alone other people's. Besides, Redania wasn’t a place he had the best sort of memories of. The less he lingered and mingled, the better.

By the time he reached King Foltest's castle he had mustered enough strength to put on his game face. He offered his services as a court bard and was taken in immediately.

He was still the most famous Master Bard on the Continent, after all.

The King also knew of Jaskier's side job, which was passing kingdoms' secrets along to whoever he deemed worthy and wealthy enough to pay for them. Nobles talked too much around lowly minstrels and he'd learned long ago to make the most of it.

He'd tried selling said secrets to Cintra, only for Geralt's Child Surprise’s sake, but Queen Calanthe hated him by association and he'd not been allowed anywhere near her since the banquet.

Foltest was smart. Jaskier knew he'd taken the poet under his wing with more interest in the many useful secrets he carried than the pleasant songs he could play.

"Where is your mighty travel companion, Bard?" the king asked, thankfully after shooing everyone else from the dining room, guards included. "The White Wolf did a great service for me years ago. He would be more than welcome here as well."

"Somewhere, helping and saving people's lives, I'm sure," he replied with a tense smile. "Now, Your Highness, we had better use this privacy to talk shop, wouldn't you agree? I don't think your personal guard left in a happy mood."

"Right to business. I like your professionalism, Jaskier. Let's get to it then. What's the political situation in the other nations?"

The poet and occasional spy nodded and started listing the information he'd been gathering before his life was torn to pieces.

***

Triss Merigold was the court sorceress and she was rather nice, based on Jaskier's limited experience in mages.

She was also very lovely on the eyes, brown curls and freckles and curves, but the poet was not feeling up to anything but his craft, not even lovemaking. For it was always lovemaking with him; he loved each and every one of his lovers. Whether for an hour or days, his sentiments were there.

He was living a brand new reality, one where he discovered a bruised heart could not love, not truly, not even a little bit. Or perhaps he'd forgotten most of the pieces of his heart Geralt had kept and stomped on, and he had too few left to feel love again.

Time would tell, he assumed.

They were sharing a drink beside the fire late one night when the enchantress looked at him for a long moment.

"Are you reading my thoughts?" he inquired, more curious than miffed about his privacy being violated.

"You're broadcasting, so to speak. But I'm sorry, I will stop," she reassured him, giving him a commiserating look. "You fell in love with him. I can't say I blame you."

Jaskier winced and drained his whole glass of wine, reaching to pour himself another. "You know him?"

"I met him briefly, long ago, but he was very charming in his own way," Triss admitted. "I'm sure you understand, knowing him better than I do."

"If my mind is as loud as you say, I'm sure you know I do."

They both sighed. Jaskier should've been irritated to be in the vicinity of yet another witch Geralt had had something with. But his gut told him Triss was longing for a thing she had never had, just like him, and for that he felt for her.

He was too drunk to be able to talk about the Witcher without sobbing like a babe, but sing he could, so he grabbed his lute and decided to perform his most recent work for Triss.

He strummed his lute gently, heartache piercing through him as if it was the first day after their separation, and started to croon. Triss straightened in her spot on the sofa and listened intently to him.

" _I'm weak, my love, and I am wanting…_ "

His voice broke on some parts, which his professors at Oxenfurt would've had his head for, but he didn't care. This song was for him, not for Geralt and Yennefer, though it was about them too. It was for him and for a chance to maybe one day not be choking in pain anymore.

There was a long silence after he finished. When he finally looked up, he startled at seeing the sorceress's pretty face streaked with tears.

"Thank you for sharing that with me, Jaskier," she said softly. "I know he doesn't look the type, but the king loves tragic love ballads. If you sing this at supper tomorrow, you'll have his unending support."

"That's funny, I thought I already had it." His joke fell a little flat but the enchantress still smiled slightly.

He had more songs like this, he had nothing but songs of this sort lately, no matter how hard he worked on them, they were rubbish unless they were sad. He spent more time cursing his godsdamned feelings for stopping him from writing anything that wasn't sincere than actually composing but he was a court bard now. He could relax, he would not go hungry as long as he entertained the king and his guests and he had many old songs for doing just that, even if it pained him to perform them.

***

He lost track of time eventually. Triss assured him it'd been only six months but it felt like another decade had passed without seeing Geralt.

Word got to the castle that the townsfolk had some sort of monster-related issue. The king, a fan of the White Wolf, called specifically for him to deal with it.

Jaskier packed lightly as soon as he heard the news and was ready to be out of there faster than he'd arrived when the king and his guards stopped him.

"Now where is my court bard going?"

"I'll be back, Your Highness, and I'm not taking anything of value except for my lute. You can check my room."

"Running from your Witcher?" Foltest was a cunning man, or perhaps Jaskier was too transparent.

Either way, his secret was out.

"If he sees me with you, he won't take the job," he explained miserably. "He'll turn around and won't ever come back, no matter the prize you offer."

"In that case, go back to your room and don't leave until I come for you," the king ordered.

Jaskier's blood ran cold at the hidden but obvious meaning of the words and he hurried to comply, literally running back up the stairs.

Geralt… he was there already.

***

_Your Witcher._

What a cruel joke that was. 

He stayed in bed, ignoring the meals the servants left for him, feeling utterly sorry for himself.

The man he loved had asked for one thing, and that was to be rid of him, to never see him again, and Jaskier couldn't even deliver that little. He had no doubt the Witcher would smell him near or sense him somehow and would leave as soon as he could after finishing the job the king had for him, cursing the gods that kept putting the bard in his way.

It made him weep harder, knowing Geralt was so near yet so far away. Jaskier missed him so much it just added to the hurt. If he'd only stayed quiet, if he'd read the moment better like he was supposed to do, maybe they would've had more time together but it was over and done.

***

At some point later, Triss pulled him out of his cocoon of furs and blankets and shook her head at him.

"Is he gone?" he rasped, wincing when he realized the poor state his voice was in.

"I ordered a bath. It'll be good for you, Jaskier. The king is expecting you for dinner." It didn't sound like an answer, though hearing the Witcher was indeed gone was not something he really wanted, so he didn't push.

He got into the tub and scrubbed himself clean, at first half-heartedly and then almost aggressively. He cried a little more, but angry tears this time, cursing his cowardice for not facing the Witcher one last time to at least yell at him to get some sort of twisted, bitter closure.

He didn’t want his last words to the love of his fucking life to be ‘ _See you around, Geralt’_ , yet he’d hidden like a rat, cried his heart out until he felt hollow but there was still this ache inside. The same heartache he’d been carrying ever since that godsforsaken mountain, a heartache that ached too much to be shunned no matter what he did; ignore it, let himself feel nothing but that pain down to his bones, use it as fuel for his poems and songs, it was all to no avail.

“You utter, lovesick _fool_ ,” he damned himself out loud. “What would you have said? I’m sorry for loving you for twenty two fucking years and for my love not being enough?”

He stayed in the tub until he was wrinkled like a prune and shivering from the cold. He didn’t feel any better. He felt like running out to the stables, taking a horse and asking which way Geralt had gone off in so he could follow, like old times.

By the Gods, he only wanted to see him one last time, even if he didn’t say anything at all but the fear of having the pieces of his broken heart smashed to smithereens was almost paralyzing.

What he wanted, he realized, was to go back in time. He wanted to go back in time, not invite Geralt to the coast and keep his mouth shut at the right time too, for once in his life. Because yes, he could read people well if he put his mind to it, but he also liked riling them up a little too much to do the sensible thing.

He was, indeed, nothing but a fool.

He took a quick look in the mirror and winced. He was pale, his eyes were red and swollen with purple bags under them that almost made it seem like someone had punched him. He reached for the abandoned glass of water that had been sitting in his night stand for as long as he’d been lying in bed and drank it in one go, hand shaking and heart racing.

What for? He wondered. Geralt was _gone_ . He was gone and Jaskier had done _nothing_.

If there was such a thing as Destiny, the poet mused, it had been right to tear them apart. He was not strong enough to deserve to travel the Continent by the Witcher’s side or to even call Geralt his friend.

He put on his less flashy doublet, a still fetching dark blue with golden stitches and knee-high black leather boots that the King had gifted him upon his arrival. They were for show, mostly, not made for long distance walks, and that for some reason made the lump in his throat bigger, harder to ignore.

He squared his shoulders as he brushed his hair and put a bit of scented oil on his wrists and behind his ears. King Foltest wanted him down. He was the court bard, not a travelling minstrel anymore. It meant less freedom, but his wanderlust had died a terrible death alongside his heart so staying in one place as a kept thing didn’t bother him. He just needed to… get used to it.

He put some powder on to hide the worst of his complexion and asked a servant girl that he heard walking by for some lemon juice. He’d used it his whole youth to hide his red eyes from his strict, noble parents and he had not missed the sting but it worked like a charm.

He grabbed his beloved, beautiful lute and left the room for the banquet hall, another servant boy leading him to it. He’d been there many times, but he was always led when there were guests so he knew it was time to do what he was there to do.

No more wallowing in his misery. 

He strutted inside, taking a deep bow with a flourish for the King and Triss sitting at the high table, using the time he was bent to pull himself together because the Witcher was there, sitting at the King’s right side and looking disgruntled about having to do so.

He grinned and dived right into a ditty, dancing between the other tables and nodding to the court musicians. He almost felt like apologizing to them, for he didn’t plan to stop performing for too long that night. He had to keep busy or he would shatter.

He managed five songs before his throat started to feel dry and he took a little break to drink wine, part of him--a big part--wanting to get blind drunk and just make a bigger fool out of himself.

He was the court bard, however, and as such he ought to behave. He was half certain the servants would cut him off way before he reached an embarrassing point.

“Jaskier, please honour us with your best song,” Foltest asked but from him, it was obviously a demand.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” he agreed meekly, bowing again. Both him and the musicians knew quite well which song was the King’s favorite of his.

It was rather early for such gloom, nevertheless the troubadour delivered the song he’d written after the Witcher currently in the same room broke his heart and made him feel he had not only wasted his whole life on Geralt, but also inconvenienced him while doing so which was the worst part of it all really.

All those years, thinking he’d been making his love’s existence a little easier--he’d been such a fool.

“ _I'm weak my love, and I am wanting_

_If this is the path I must trudge_

_I welcome my sentence_

_Give to you my penance_

_Garrotter, jury and judge…_ ”

The banquet hall was filled to the brim with the best of Temeria, and everyone in it except for his former travel companion was familiar with this particular ballad. The King did adore tragic love stories, and what tragedy was greater than such raw love being crushed before it could bloom, while another destructive one took its place?

Jaskier’s voice always broke a little and that night was no exception. If anything, it was worse. It was impossible not to look at Geralt, even though he tried not to. He felt like he could hardly breathe through the whole thing but he was a professionally trained bard and didn’t stop until the end, finally taking a gulp of air when his audience broke into loud applause and praise.

He was sipping another glass of wine when he felt it: an unmistakable presence on his back, someone Jaskier didn't need heightened senses to recognize, not even in the dark or in the middle of a room full of people.

"Geralt," he greeted, not turning around. He grabbed an appetizer from a passing servant just to stuff his mouth with it.

"Jaskier." it wasn't a Hmm but it was B major. Worried or worse, upset. "I need a word. In private."

Gods, but his voice was so deep it made him weak in the knees still, after all they'd been through.

"Give me a second," he replied, walking to the high table to ask for a longer break which the King granted him with a magnanimous gesture.

The bard grabbed a bottle of the best wine and beckoned the Witcher to follow him, guiding him to the first unused room he could find.

There was a small hearth though it wasn't lit. Jaskier didn't care. He sat in one of the loveseats, crossed his legs and took a deep drink, straight from the bottle, offering it to Geralt when he was done.

He saw the Witcher forming Igni and starting the fire with it before sitting across from him. He smiled slightly at the effortless show of prowess. To think that Geralt didn't even realize how incredible he was still pained him.

"It's elven wine, the King won't miss it," he encouraged. Filling awkward silences or any type of silence was his specialty after all.

His former travel companion looked dubious but still took a long sip and though his expression only changed enough to the trained eye to catch Jaskier still saw the little raise of his eyebrows, the impressed quirk of his lips, the satisfied glint in his lovely amber eyes.

"Good, right?" he smiled, thinking that maybe they could pretend nothing was wrong at all.

"Hmm." A major. Always a tricky one. Agreement but also mild exasperation.

"I'm sorry," he blurted out, "I know you didn't want to see me anymore, but how was I supposed to know you were friends with the King of Temeria? You never told me anything about your heroic deeds here, let's not even start with the princess and how you saved her."

"That's not…" a growl, which never meant anything good regardless of key, "Fuck. Could you shut the fuck up for one second?"

The poet nodded, cringing slightly, and muffled hysterical laughter by reaching for the bottle and taking it from Geralt's hand, ignoring the tingle when their fingers brushed and just drinking some more.

He startled when the Witcher took the bottle away from him and kneeled in front of him.

"Geralt?" he'd never seen the warrior in such a position, not willingly, not except when they were jumped by mercenaries eager to rob them or something worse.

"You know the Path is dangerous and has none of the comforts you have here," Geralt rumbled, his eyes were locked with Jaskier's, his hands clasping the bard's knees feeling like a brand over him. 

The bard held his breath and stayed completely still. That was possibly the longest sentence he’d ever heard from his former friend, if he didn’t count their falling out, which he was trying to ignore for the sake of his sanity. It was also one of the few times Geralt touched him, Jaskier had always been the one freely giving those. On a good day, perhaps his friend would lean the slightest bit into his touch but nothing more. He felt like he must’ve been dreaming or perhaps hallucinating because of dehydration? The Witcher surely wasn’t--he couldn’t be--

“If I could choose,” _which I’m not sure I can_ , “Between any court and the Path, you know I would choose you. I did, for many years.”

“I’m leaving in the morning,” Geralt announced, voice low, “If you want to come with me, I’ll wait for you.”

Jaskier stared for a long moment. He knew the key--D major--it meant the Witcher was being genuine, vulnerable even. It was the tone he’d used late one night after the mess during Princess Pavetta’s betrothal, when he told Jaskier he’d been a Child Surprise himself, that Witchers usually were. It was also a tone he’d heard from afar many times, used on Yennefer mostly, never on him after they met the witch.

If he stretched his memory, he could even pinpoint the last time those amber eyes had gazed at him warmly instead of with exasperation. It had been at the Cintran banquet, before Geralt claimed the Law of Surprise, before Jaskier started piling shit on him just by being nearby.

“I assume your life has been going too well for your liking then?” his mouth ran away from him, and he removed the Witcher’s hands from him to pace around the room, something ugly fighting to burst out from his chest, “Need me to come back to throw bad things at you, for old times’ sake?”

Geralt’s jaw clenched, his hands fisted on his sides, his slitted eyes precise at following the poet in his pacing. “Jaskier.”

“No, you’re not getting me back or whatever you want so fucking easily!” he pointed at his former travel companion with a shaky finger, hating the cracks in his voice. Maybe if the other wasn’t so dense with emotions, he would see the bard was all but breaking down in front of him. “You told me I ruined your life. I admit, at times I did complicate matters for you, but all I ever wanted was to make things better for you, so excuse me if I don’t want to go back to _shovel shit on you_!”

The Witcher tried to get closer, to which the bard responded by almost jumping to the other side of the room, not caring he was perhaps too close to the fire to be comfortable.

“What is it? Do you need a barker to sing more songs across the Continent for you? I doubt your fame has died so fast. My songs are quite good, they’ll be going around for decades if you keep working as well as we both know you do. That’s all you want, isn’t it? The Path, until you get too slow and a monster kills you. You don’t need anyone, and you don’t want anyone needing you either.”

Geralt was in front of him faster than he could blink, pulling him away from the hearth with a snarl.

“Fuck! I didn’t mean--”

“Oh, don’t you fucking dare,” the bard grabbed his chin to cut him off, “I know you meant every word, back then at Cintra and on the mountain, so don’t fucking patronize me with lies!”

“I WAS WRONG! I WAS FUCKING WRONG!” the Witcher all but shouted, gripping him by the shoulders and shaking him.

It was quite efficient in extinguishing the anger that roared inside of the poet from a wild destructive fire to just embers.

A shout was also always bad news usually, but this one felt… different, like a promise and better than any apology somehow.

“I don’t--” he breathed in, shuddering in Geralt’s hold, eyes stinging with weakness he didn’t want the other to see, “I don’t understand.”

“I was wrong,” Geralt repeated in a rasp, grasping Jaskier’s nape to lean their foreheads together, “The Path was meant to be walked alone, but I don’t want that anymore. I want you there with me, Jaskier.”

A startled, bubbly laugh was all he could react with for a long moment. The closeness they were sharing left him utterly speechless, but he knew the Witcher was trying so very hard to use his words. He had to do the same for him.

“Yes,” he replied, not even caring he was half sobbing. They were happy tears, a kind he hadn’t shed in a long time, “I will follow you to the ends of the Earth, Geralt, but please-- _please_ , don’t send me away again. I won’t survive it.”

The smallest smile curved the Witcher’s lips. “I won’t.”

Jaskier grinned back, closing his eyes against the overwhelming happiness and relief that were washing all those months of sourness and ache away.

“If you don’t let go soon, I might start getting ideas,” he warned, teasing, but also painfully obvious and hopeful.

“Hmm.” _Happy._ F major. Not a key the bard had been gifted with very often. “Show me.”

Slowly, though he knew it wasn’t necessary to give his companion extra time to react to anything, Jaskier cupped his face and leaned the slightest bit closer. It was all that was needed for their lips to fit together. Geralt’s mouth was a little chapped but warm and the poet kissed him with twenty two years of longing and love, tilting his head to press in deeper, but still just using his lips to caress, memorizing the feel of their mouths together.

It didn’t take long for Geralt to wrap his arms around the trim waist accentuated by his doublet, and he laughed when the Witcher tried to lower him to one of the couches only for Jaskier to push him away lightly, playfully. He ended up practically riding his companion’s thigh, not that he was complaining, strong arms still holding him tight.

“Dear Witcher of mine, I’m still the court bard. I have to go back to the banquet.”

“Hmm.” _Pleased_. F minor. Also a treat for the poet’s trained ears. “Not for much longer.”

“Look at you, so pleased with yourself,” he leaned in for another kiss, this one short but with a little tongue, “I like it. It suits you.”

“Your room,” Geralt insisted, hoisting him up by the thighs with not even a grunt of effort.

“Oh ho ho, you’re showing off! I like that as well,” Jaskier clung to his Witcher’s neck, “You’re seeing my room _after_ I’m done with my performance, not a moment sooner.”

“Jaskier.”

“Geralt.”

They stared at each other. Jaskier’s eyes held challenge. He had a reputation to uphold and if they’d waited over twenty years to get their heads out of their arses and kiss, they could wait a couple more hours to do more. It wasn’t something he wanted to rush, as much as he enjoyed being the sole recipient of the gorgeous Witcher’s attention.

“Hmm.” Impatient. A major. The bard pecked him on the lips in thanks and took him by the hand after he was put back on his feet.

***

Jaskier had barely enough time to light a candle before he was pounced by his lover, firmly but carefully being tackled to the mattress from the back.

He laughed and stopped halfway to moan as Geralt wasted no more time and started sucking love bites onto the back of his neck.

“You taste sweet,” the Witcher commented, teeth grazing the bard’s skin and raising goosebumps all over his body.

“I use this thing called soap,” he teased, laughing in delight when his Witcher bit into him in retaliation, panting when one hand cupped and squeezed his arse to shut him up.

The poet was happy to let Geralt lead until they were finally bare, at which point he rolled them over and beamed at his lover’s stunned expression.

“Hmm.” Impressed. G sharp.

“My turn to taste,” he announced, bracketing Geralt’s hips with his thighs before leaning down to kiss him as he’d meant to do for hours, pride practically bursting out of his pores at hearing his lover groan and feel his arms gripping him closer.

He was kissing a lovely path down his Witcher’s neck when the man seemed to have enough teasing and flipped them, spreading Jaskier’s legs with his hands and rutting against him as they kissed again, nipping at their bottom lips and chasing each other’s mouths even when air ran low.

It took most of his willpower to push Geralt slightly off of him so he could stretch to get the first vial of oil he could find. He was quick to slick his fingers and find his hole, arching his back to give his lover a better view of him.

Geralt seemed mesmerized by the sight, his fingers spreading him wider and pressing down almost painfully enough to bruise. Not that the bard would mind, bearing the marks of those strong fingers for a few days.

He went right in with two fingers, wincing at the sudden intrusion but not having the patience for anything less while watching his lover’s thick, gorgeous cock hard and ready to be inside him, leaking in anticipation. He handed the vial to his Witcher, smirking when he just blinked down at Jaskier in a daze.

“Love, do I have to do everything myself?” he pulled his fingers out, knowing it wouldn’t be enough but not caring, and wrapped his arm around Geralt’s back to bring him to his level to kiss, lewd and lingering.

Only then his Witcher snapped out of it, pouring most of what remained of the oil onto his palm and smearing it over his length with a grunt. Jaskier sighed and licked his lips as he watched, gasping in delight when Geralt kissed his forehead, clearly asking for forgiveness for the rush of it.

“It’s alright, love,” he whispered, carding his fingers through some white locks, arranging them behind Geralt’s left ear, “I’ve been aching for you for so long. This ache? It’ll be much better.”

His lover groaned, nuzzling into his neck as he breached the poet. Jaskier gasped, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, but his eagerness and lousy preparation were somehow enough to spare him from real pain. He did feel the stretch and whimpered through it, but Geralt was slow and gentle, patiently sliding in with each give of Jaskier’s muscles, reading his body as easily as the bard read the keys of his hums and eventually they were joined as if they were one, fitting like two halves of a whole.

It was no secret he’d always enjoyed sex. Men or women, both, neither or something in between, he’d never been one to measure his love or been extremely picky but this felt like electricity running through his back and up, making him moan and chase that perfect cock spearing him with his own hips, ankles hooked over Geralt’s thighs. They were sleek with sweat, his own cock rubbing between them spreading pre-come over their skin, and the noises they were both making were absolutely obscene. He loved it, wished it would never end, and tried to commit to memory the beautiful music they were making, the sweet torture for every one of his senses that it was.

Suddenly, Geralt groaned louder, grabbed his calves and bended him in half, thrusting into him faster and in a new angle that stopped all train of thought he could have. He keened, welcoming the onslaught of pleasure, and clenched around his lover’s length as his vision went blurry with climax, nails scratching his Witcher’s back.

Almost in sync, Geralt spilled inside him, hips stuttering as he finished, a long grunt muffled against the bard’s neck. Afterward he collapsed right on top of the bard, winded but peppering his skin with wet kisses instead of taking deeper breaths.

Jaskier laughed breathlessly and stroked his lover’s scalp gently, letting him know he was comfortable with their position.

“Tired?” he whispered.

“Hmm.” G major. That was new. Maybe it meant his Witcher was sated?

***

King Foltest was eager for the spy in him to go fishing for more political gossip, so he even gave Jaskier a horse as a parting gift.

“Oh, darling girl! I’ve missed you too,” the bard accepted Roach’s headbutt on his chest gallantly and hugged her in return, “We’ll be going on more adventures now! It’s going to be great.”

“I know, I know,” he kept going as he caught his Witcher’s eye roll, “It’s going to be very hot or very cold. I’ll get blisters on new places now that I have a horse, you’ll hear me complain about that often enough, but it’s still going to be great. The whole Continent for us to explore and aid! So many ears waiting to hear my songs!”

They did need to choose one place to go at a time. He was about to ask his love where they were headed when Geralt cocked his head in question.

“Oh, I’m picking our first destination?”

“Hmm.” An affirmation. Still sounded happy. Jaskier could definitely get used to only hearing joy from his Witcher’s hums and replies.

“Well then, off to Cintra we go! Lead the way, my love.”

He expected Geralt to fight him on his decision at least a bit, but he clearly knew Jaskier better than the poet had realized and was ready for that to come up, for he only nodded and finished securing the saddlebags on both their horses.

“Ready to claim your Child Surprise then?” the bard asked, just to make sure, taking Geralt’s hand and squeezing it, “You are going to be a marvelous teacher.”

Roach snorted and pushed Geralt’s chest this time, clearly agreeing with Jaskier. Or perhaps ready for them to stop dwelling and get going.

“Hmm.” Amused. D minor. Ah, but that was lovely too.

Jaskier had always been weak for romantic gestures, he was an artist and had a gentle soul after all, so when his Witcher kissed his knuckles and only then released his hand he was not ashamed to admit how very much in love he was and would always be, until his very last breath.

He didn’t know what love smelled like, but Geralt had that soft look in his eyes again and was even--Gods forbid--smiling so it must have been something pleasant.


End file.
